Hammered

by Jasinda Wilder

  My heart is crashing in my chest as I draw the elastic away from his body and peel the cotton undergarment downward. He steps out of them and toes them aside.

  Ohhhh god. Holy hell.

  Talk about perfection. Standing straight upright against his belly, he’s a thick shaft of veiny, throbbing arousal. The round head gleams wetly, begging for my touch. I reach a hesitant hand out, and then grasp him. One hand isn’t nearly enough—it takes both of my hands to fully encompass his entire length. With one small hand wrapped around his thick erection, I stroke him slowly, watching the path of my hand up to the head, watch my palm wrap over the bulbous, pre-cum-leaking tip, and then slide back down.

  I glance up at Jesse: he’s got his arms crossed over his chest, and his jaw is tensing, flexing, and his breathing is coming fast and ragged. “You okay?” I ask.

  He nods, tightly. “Better than okay. I wish I could feel your hand around me like that forever, without having to come. But as it is, I’m riding the edge here, and I need you.” He pulls away from me, out of my grip, and then prowls forward. I crawl backward on the bed as he crawls forward onto it, predatory and male and primal. Every inch of him is beautiful, the way his muscles shift powerfully as he crawls toward me, the wild mane of his jet-black hair, the soft, shaggy beard, the tattoos. My breath catches at this vision: Jesse, crawling for me, hunger in his eyes, his arousal bobbing and swaying as he moves, his muscles shifting in the moonlight coming in from the windows.

  I reach the head of the bed, leaning against headboard and pillows, and he’s above me, reaching for me. His hand curls around the back of my neck and he lifts me up to him, taking a dizzying kiss from me. Again, as with every time I’ve ever kissed Jesse, I’m soon lost in it. In him. In the sweep of his tongue and the slant of his lips and the warm huff of his breath. He’s just as lost in the kiss, I want to think, lowering himself over me, burying his mouth against mine, moaning into my breath. Curling me closer, his hands exploring my body without purpose except to feel me, to touch me, to indulge in the pleasure of my feminine flesh.

  The drugging potency of his kiss dizzies me, leaves me gasping. “Jesse…” I whisper.

  He brushes a thumb over my cheekbone. “Imogen?”

  “Kiss me again. And…please, don’t stop.”

  He levers an arm beside my head, supporting his weight on it as he opens a drawer in his bedside table. Withdrawing a box of condoms, he rips the top open with a glance at me. “Brand-new box because I’ve never brought anyone here. I bought these today, hoping and fantasizing about bringing you here someday. I didn’t think it’d actually happen today, though.”

  He rips a square free and tosses the box and the rest of the strip aside, and moves back to his knees. Hands shaking with need and with anticipation, I take the wrapper from him and tear it open to reveal the ring inside. I remove it, fit the latex to the thick, round head of him, and roll it down, hand over hand, enjoying the way he groans incoherently at my touch.

  Instead of moving over me, he reaches for me, extending his hand. I take it, and he draws me upright to a sitting position. He sinks back to sit on his heels, and pulls me to him.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, unsure of his intent.

  His only response is to guide me up onto my knees and then to sit on my heels in a mirror of his own position, so we’re both on our knees, sitting on our heels facing each other. He draws me closer yet, palming a breast as I lean into him, his other hand going for my ass. My own hands begin their own exploration, sliding over his massive shoulders and down the serpentine S of his spine to his firm buttocks. His lips find mine, and now I can delve into this, now I can trust him to know what he’s doing with me. When he kisses me, the world fades and my doubts vanish and my fears are erased and everything is right and perfect, because he’s kissing me.

  The deeper our kiss goes, the wilder my pulse hammers, the hotter and wetter my core becomes. The more I need him.

  I lift up on my knees, smashing my breasts against his chest, clutching his face in both hands. His palms cup my ass, lifting me higher, and now I understand.

  “Yes,” I breathe.

  He lifts me up, pulls me close. My pulse is a coruscating crescendo in my veins, and my heart—the physical one—is squeezing madly, while my metaphysical heart is blossoming open like a flower stretching upward for the sunrise. I reach between us, clutch the latex-sheathed magnificence of his erection and guide him to me.

  I have to break the kiss to whimper as the head nudges my opening.

  “Jesse…” I sob.

  His voice is as ragged as mine when he answers. “God…Imogen.”

  He grips a buttock in each hand, holding me up, and I clutch him, drawing out the moment.

  It’s up to me, I realize.

  He’s waiting for me.

  I press my forehead to his and breathe in slowly, take his upper lip between my teeth, and claim a fierce, wilding, ungentle kiss. He moans, a sound I feel in the crush of my breasts against his chest—he needs me, that’s what the moan says: don’t draw it out any longer.

  I sink down onto him, sobbing as he fills me. His roar laces through my sob, and he releases my ass to let me slap down onto his thighs. He fills me and stretches me and I can’t take anymore, but I’m still stretching around him, and I’m filled by the burning aching swell of accepting his enormity inside me. He’s fully impaled in me now, and I’m sitting on his thighs. My breasts are pressed against his face, and he takes the opportunity to bathe my nipples with kisses, and then he moves to the undersides, in the tender flesh where they meet my chest, the delicate inner skin, and then finally he takes my nipple into his mouth and suckles until I moan, and have to move.

  I rise up, whimpering as he slicks out of me, until just the fat thick head remains inside me, and then I crush downward, a loud shriek leaving me as he spears into me. His voice joins mine, a guttural cry as he drives in, our hips meeting once more. He cups my breasts and lifts them to his mouth, worshipping them one and then the other in alternating rhythm.

  I lift up again, and this time, I know there won’t be any stopping. I clutch his shoulders for support as I rise, drawing him out, and then take another kiss from his mouth as we merge and crash together, our voices united in mutual ecstasy. Jesse clutches at me as I rise up again immediately, needing the fullness of him, needing the slide of his throbbing arousal through me. His hands hold me hard against his chest, holding him as he thrusts deep into me, my buttocks smashed flat against his thighs, my breasts in his face, his breath on my throat, his hair tickling and pungently male.

  He falls backward without warning, taking me with him, and now I’m on top of him, straddling him, and his hands roam my back and my hips and my ass and then slide up to cup my breasts and flick my nipples, before palming my face and bringing my mouth to his.

  “Ride me, Imogen,” he breathes, our lips brushing, his words felt as much as heard.

  I have no choice but to obey—it’s what I need, more than my next breath, more than anything, I need to ride him to our mutual completion. There is nothing but sensation. Only him, only his scent, the powerful bulge of his muscles, the hard plane of his chest beneath me, his hips angular under mine, his arousal throbbing and hot and thick inside me, his hands exploring me, tangling in my hair and carving down my spine to cradle my ass, encouraging me to move.

  Move; move.

  I need it. I need the slide and grind—I claw my hands into his chest, leaning against him for balance, for support, my hair draping in brown curtains around our faces, blocking out all the world and even his room and the walls and the silver wash of the moonlight. I don’t want this to end, I don’t want to stop, I don’t even want to come yet, I just want to feel this forever, for as long as I can. I’ve never been so full, never felt so filled, never felt so stretched. My core aches and tingles from the thickness of him spreading me so far open, and I’ll know I’ll be so sore it’ll be hard to walk later, but it’s perfect right now and I do
n’t want to stop.

  He thrusts, and I whimper; he drives deep, and now I can tilt my hips and sink against him and he goes even deeper and the sense of fullness and completion is so overwhelming another gasping sob is ripped from me. I sag forward, pulling away from him, moaning at the emptiness throughout me at the loss of him, and then I fall back, slamming my ass against him, hard. He groans in shock, and the next time I pull forward and begin my downward slide, he thrusts to meet me—his hips crash against me with a resounding slap, and his erection is all I feel, moving in me and through me, deep and deep and deeper. The next thrust, I lift up, balancing upright, stretching him away from his body and sitting down on him, impaling him deeper than ever.

  His hands circle my hips and now he lifts, guiding me upward, and controlling the downward force, so I take him harder than ever, faster yet. I feel a crescendo rising in me, feel the swell in my core, the heat building and the pressure intensifying. My softness and his steel clash and merge in an ever-faster rhythm, slaps and moans filling the air, his grunts and my shrieks woven around each other.

  I can hold it back no longer—I’ve been pushing the climax away, not wanting this to end, but he is relentless.

  He senses me approaching the edge, perhaps feeling it in the way I clench around him, perhaps hearing it in the way my breath catches and the whimpers turn to screams. His hands cup my breasts and he relinquishes control over my rhythm, letting me take myself to the edge and past. He pinches my nipples, and I cry out—he flicks them, licks them, and I lose myself to the crushing force of my climax. I press my hands to his belly, just above the joining of our bodies, and now I can’t stop the approach of the climax even if I wanted to. I embrace it, now.

  “Come for me, Imogen,” Jesse growls, and his words may as well be a command, one that I have no choice but to obey.

  I writhe on top of him, grinding him through me, hips gyrating in wild, helpless circles, and my breasts shake and tremble and bounce and sway, and his hands are on my hips, encouraging me to go faster, faster—which I do. Faster, faster. My hands stab into my hair, yanking it back, and then as the climax becomes inevitable, a tsunami of smashing, inundating, scream-eliciting ecstasy.

  “Jesse!” I cry, not just crying out loud, but actually sobbing, a scream of his name as I reach the cusp of climax.

  “Let me feel you come, Imogen,” he snarls, driving relentlessly into me. “Let me feel you come around me.”

  My right hand steals automatically to my core, two fingers pressing and circling, and I fling myself into oblivion.

  “God that’s fucking hot,” he growls.

  My eyes snap open and I realize he’s watching me, devouring my every move—my left hand is clutched to my left breast, cupping and squeezing, while my right drives me to the furthest, highest peaks of orgasm; he has my left hip in a crushing, bruising grip I can’t get enough of while his right kneads my right breast, flicking my nipple with his thumb, adding to the fury of my orgasm.

  I’m screaming and screaming and screaming as I come—not wordless screams, though, but his name, over and over and over.

  When the orgasm is wrung out of me, I’m left limp, and he’s still hard inside me.

  “God, Jesse,” I whimper. “Oh my god.”

  His grin is predatory. “My turn,” he rumbles.

  “Your…turn?” I breathe, incredulous. “You haven’t come yet?”

  “Did you feel me come? Did you hear me come?”

  “No,” I say, my voice faint.

  “Because I didn’t. I was waiting for you. I needed to feel you come first.” He lifts me up, pushes me backward, off of him. “And now it’s my turn.”

  “Oh—oh god,” I whisper. “Please, Jesse, I need it.” I reach for him, aching at the loss of him. “Give it to me.”

  I’m on my back now, and I’ve never wanted anything so badly as I want to feel him on top of me. He crawls over me, and I widen my thighs for him, welcoming him. Begging for him. His eyes rake over me, spread out beneath him, breasts drooping heavily to either side, belly heaving, breathless, from the still-quaking aftershocks of my orgasm, my core wet with soaking need, waiting for him.

  “You are…so fucking beautiful, Imogen.”

  Now why the hell does that make me cry? Actual tears drip from my eyes, at his words, unbidden and unwelcome and unstoppable.

  His thumbs wipe them away, and his expression is…I would say tender, if it wasn’t for the ravenous, primal, seductive hunger in his eyes. I grasp him as he approaches me, taking his thick, latex-sheathed erection in my fist and guiding him to me. He lets me, shifting toward me, shuffling on his knees.

  He doesn’t just flop over me in the usual missionary position—oh no, Jesse O’Neill does nothing so pedestrian as that. He remains on his knees, and he takes my ankles in his hands and tucks my feet into his armpits, stretching my legs apart, thighs in a wide V, knees pushed backward—opening me wider than I’ve ever been, so I can take him deeper than I’ve ever been filled. I cry out, a strangled, sob-laden, shock-laced sound of abandon.

  Jesse starts slowly, as if we’ve just begun. As if I haven’t already come harder than I’ve ever come in my life. His hands cradle my inner thighs, gripping the tender silk of my flesh just to either side of our joining. And he drives, slowly, deliberately, into me. Pulls out. Slides in. With each thrust, he adjusts his angle so every time he fills me it feels slightly different, a new sensation, a subtle difference in the way his arousal strikes into me. It’s like he’s searching for something with his thrusts, as if they’re questing, seeking the perfect angle.

  What is he looking for? I don’t know.

  I can’t ask, I’m too breathless, too lost in sensation. Too lost in him.

  And then, with a shattering detonation, he finds it. He finds the perfect angle. He knows when he finds it, too, because I scream without warning, my hips crashing helplessly against him. He thrusts now at that precise angle, faster and faster, each thrust dragging another scream out of me, forcing my hips to move, to match him, each thrust accompanied by a guttural grunt from him and a breathless scream from me.

  “Jesse—” I gasp, “holy shit, Jesse, what are you doing to me?”

  He has no words for me in reply, and I want none, need none—as long as he doesn’t stop.

  He increases his pace with each thrust, never varying his angle, and I’m shaking with the force of his lovemaking—if you can call it that. It’s more carnal than that, I realize. It’s far more primal and animal than lovemaking. The raw carnality of this is undeniable, exhilarating, freeing.

  He’s fucking me, and I can’t get enough.

  I abandon myself to the furious eroticism of this, with Jesse, taking each pounding thrust and begging for more with my screams and my driving hips and my clawing hands.

  How long can he last? I feel like we’ve been moving together for so long, for hours. Longer than I’ve ever had sex, certainly. And he seems no closer to his own release than when he started. I’m losing it, losing the battle to keep from coming yet again. I can’t deny myself the climax, can’t deny him his mastery over my body. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

  “One more, Imogen,” he snarls. “Give me one more.”

  “God—Jesse, I—oh god,” I breathe. “I need yours.”

  “I’ll give it to you—as soon as you give me one more.” His strong, work-roughened hands cup my inner thighs, pressing my legs farther apart, until he’s gripping me at the creases where thighs meet core, and his thumbs spread my stretched, tender hood further open, and then the wide pad of his thumb finds my hypersensitive center and circles, as if I needed further stimulation to reach the edge. “Now, Imogen—come for me, right now.”

  He barks the command, and I obey, yet again.

  I thrash under him, writhe in his hands and grind against his thrusting erection. I take him deep, and ache with the fullness of him, and scream with the wrenching, spasmodic fury of my third orgasm.

  He drives into me th
rough wave after wave of climax, and I’m sobbing yet again.

  And once more, I realize he’s not done with me yet.

  He pulls out of me entirely, and kneels over me. “Hands and knees, Imogen.”

  “Wh-what?” I squeak.

  “Remember what I said, earlier? I want you on your hands and knees in my bed.”

  I need him. I need his orgasm. I need his release. I need it.

  So, despite being shaky and weak and breathless from three earth-shaking orgasms, I roll to my belly and push up on my hands and knees. I’ve never in my life felt so self-conscious as I do in this moment, my big flabby ass in the air and spread out in front of him. My chest tightens, and my throat closes, and I’m close to losing the thread of arousal, so terrified am I that seeing me like this will turn him off.

  Nicholas never wanted me like this.

  As if the thought of my ex had been an audible thing, Jesse snarls. “Quit that shit, Imogen.”

  “Wha—? What?” I breathe.

  “I can fucking feel you shutting down right now.”

  “I don’t feel sexy like this,” I admit, the words barely audible.

  He actually laughs—he has the gall to laugh. “Imogen, Jesus. How the hell do you not know how goddamned perfect you are?”

  I can only shake my head, trying not to cry. I twist to look at him over my shoulder. He meets my eyes, and there is nothing in his expression but pure, unfiltered need. God, he’s gorgeous: Kneeling behind me, erection thick and upright and enormous and perfect, wet from me, his muscles shifting and powerful, his tanned skin slick and beaded with sweat from making me come so hard, his hair as untamed as the man himself, a jet-black mess of thick locks around his eyes and jaw. He’s staring at me, his eyes devouring me. I cannot deny the arousal in his gaze, and he’s looking at me, like this, in a position I find…not demeaning, not humiliating…I’m just self-conscious and unsure like this. But the look on his face as he kneels behind me is undeniable.

  As is the reverence in his hands as he reaches out to palm my buttocks. “So fuckin’ beautiful,” he murmurs, his eyes sliding to mine. “How do you not understand that you’re perfect? You’re exquisite, Imogen.”